I’ve mentioned this book before. When I finished reading it, I immediately began rereading it. It’s a short book, under 200 pages, with lots of white space (haiku don’t take up too much room)—a quick read.

Overview

In this book, Henderson describes the characteristics of haiku and offers history and translations from the earliest haiku to Bashō to Buson to Issa and Shiki, along with their contemporaries. Included with his translations are the original Japanese verses with a literal translation to English and any contextual notes needed to understand the poem.

The author is humble in his descriptions and translations. He begins by reminding us of the Italian “traduttore, traditore” and its implication that any translator is probably a traitor. He emphasizes the need to create the effect of the original haiku, but that one can only recreate the effect on oneself, thus there are multiple ways to create an effect (and sometimes it is impossible), so multiple translations may be “correct.”

Henderson chooses to translate haiku from which he feels he can capture the effect of the original without too much explanation. As he says “I have a very strong belief that too much explanation can take the pleasure out of any poetry.” He attempts to be as literal in his translation as possible, while recognizing the necessary adjustments for such dissimilar languages as Japanese and English.

Characteristics of haiku

Henderson describes a haiku as a very short poem, with special characteristics, but primarily meant to evoke emotion. Yes, in Japanese haiku have 17 syllables, but there’s a little more to it than that.

High moments – Haiku can be happy, sad, deep, shallow, religious or whatever, but haiku are records of “high moments.” Haiku should capture the peaks that are higher than the surrounding plains of life.

Condensed language – Haiku often omit words that are not needed to understand the poem, but that would be used in a grammatically correct sentence. (He cautions care here: condensing to excess can result in an unintelligible puzzle.) Season words and cut words are two conventions used to eliminate unnecessary words.

Season words – Kigo, or season words, are used as a common reference. They put the poem in a setting immediately. The reference may be the actual word (spring, fall, etc.) or may be a reference that is attached to a particular season, for example, cherry blossoms, which occur in spring.

Henderson adds, “It may be noted in passing that the use of ki is probably at the base of a charge that has been advanced that haiku are more concerned with nature than with human affairs. Such a statement is ridiculous. Haiku are more concerned with human emotions than human acts, and natural phenomena are used to reflect human emotions, but that is all.”

Cut words – Kireji, or “cut words,” are specific Japanese words that divide the poem in two parts that are to be equated or compared. There is no real equivalent in English, so Henderson uses punctuation to indicate kireji in his translations.

Power of suggestion – Due to their length, haiku depend on the power of suggestion. They often give a clear picture of something that is the starting place for an emotion or train of thought. The outline is drawn, but the reader fills it in.

Henderson says, “…in order to really understand a good haiku, one has to read it over many times. It is not that the picture is hazy in any way, for if the author has done his work properly, the picture is quite clear. The point is that good haiku are full of overtones.”

In particular, it may be difficult to find the connection from the natural image to the human emotion—thus the need for multiple readings.

A sampling of Henderson’s translations

Henderson takes us on an historical field trip from Bashō to Shiki. I’ve included a few examples here that I either like or that illustrate some of his points.

I should note first that Henderson rhymes many of his translations in the first and third lines. Haiku in Japanese do not typically rhyme, but he justifies this choice as a structural framework and a way to make sure the short lines are not mistaken for prose.

I found the rhyming a bit irritating at first, but then it grew on me, and I’ve been experimenting with similar rhyme in my haiku since I read the book. There is something quaint about it when done well. The more I try rhyming my haiku, the more I admire Henderson’s translations.

Not-haiku

Henderson starts with the earliest haiku or precursors to haiku. He makes it very clear that a haiku must evoke human emotion. A 17-syllable poem that is primarily a joke or a trick or is just clever is not of the highest form and may not even be haiku.

This seems to be found early on (15th-16th century) especially. For example, Sōkan’s verse:

If to the moon
one puts a handle—what
a splendid fan!

It may be a clever image, but there is no depth of emotion.

Another example Henderson offers of not-haiku or bad haiku is Teitoku’s verse (which takes place on new year’s day):

This morning, how
icicles drip!—slobbering
year of the cow!

Bashō (one of the greats) referred to this type of verse—clever more than poetic—as “Teitoku’s slobber.”

(Now, at this point in the book I was getting the uncomfortable feeling of having written a lot of not-haiku. Hmmm.)

Things started to improve with Sōin of the Danrin School (17th century). For example:

Dewdrops, limpid, small—
and such a lack of judgment shown
in where they fall!

Still clever and somewhat thin, but moving more towards layered meanings.

Bashō

Bashō is the most famous poet of the Edo period (1603-1867) and a well known teacher. There is a tale of Bashō and a young student. The student made the following haiku:

Red dragonflies!
Take off their wings,
and they are pepper pods!

Bashō corrected him, saying that was not a haiku, this was a haiku:

Red pepper pods!
Add wings to them,
and they are dragonflies!

His most famous haiku:

Old pond—
and a frog jump-in
water-sound.

A couple more of Bashō’s work.

Spring too, very soon!
They are setting the scene for it—
plum tree and moon.

This road:
with no man traveling on it,
autumn darkness falls.

Ransetsu

I appreciated Henderson’s offering of several possible versions of Ransetsu’s famous haiku.

On the plum tree
one blossom, one blossomworth
of warmth.

As on the plums
blossom by blossom, so too
spring warmness comes.

On the plum is glowing
one blossom; now one blossom strong,
warmth too is growing.

On the plum, forlorn,
one blossom; one frail blossomworth
of warmth has just been born.

As Henderson says, all versions are “right,” and all are probably “wrong,” since they give only one point of view.

Onitsura

With Onitsura, Henderson offers a good example of a haiku with many overtones and possible interpretations.

On top of skeletons
they put a gala dress, and then—
the flower viewing!

One could read this as a cynical look at the revelers who put on their best clothes for the cherry-viewing festival. Perhaps Onitsura is suggesting a comparison of the shortness of human life to that of the cherry blossom. Another interpretation is that the naked trees are getting dressed with spring blossoms. (Also, a reinforcement that haiku need to be read multiple times—I did not get both interpretations without explanation.)

Chiyo

Chiyo is one of the best known female haiku writers. Here are two translations of a haiku she wrote after the death of her little son.

Henderson’s translation:

The dragonfly hunter—
today, what place has he
got to, I wonder…

Curtis Hidden Page’s translation:

I wonder in what fields today
He chases dragonflies in play.
My little boy—who ran away.

Interesting to see how both translators chose to rhyme the haiku. I found the Henderson translation more poignant, perhaps partially due to the triple rhyme and more literal feel of Page’s.

Buson

Buson is considered the next great haiku writer to come after Bashō.

A mountain pheasant,
treading on its tail, the springtime’s
setting sun.

There apparently is no agreement on the correct reading of this haiku. Who/what is stepping on the tail—the pheasant or the sun? But it does offer a comparison of the colorful tail to the sunset, and Henderson suspects Buson accomplished what he wanted.

Issa

This simple haiku makes a comparison of the moon to a toy, but also has overtones of economic theory, Henderson points out.

Snow melts,
and the village is overflowing—
with children.

And some of his haiku have little surprises in the last lines. If you read just the first two lines of the haiku above, an image begins to form, but the third line creates an entirely different image. And another in the same vein…

Thanks to cherry bloom,
in its shadow utter strangers—
there are none!

Shiki

Henderson ends with Shiki (who apparently was a precocious upstart) and his contemporaries.

Evening moon:
plum blossoms start to fall
upon the lute.

In the winter river,
thrown away, a dog’s
dead body.

Quite a range Shiki had.

Recommendation: Read

If you have any interest in haiku, I’d recommend this book. I have not read too many other books that explain and/or translate haiku, but this one seemed to clarify some of the conceptions and misconceptions I had.

In stark contrast to John Gardner (the last review I wrote was of Gardner’s The Art of Fiction), Harold Henderson is a humble writer and translator, offering his own educated opinions and translations, while remaining entirely open to the possibility that there is another and possibly a better way.

Harold Henderson was an encouraging teacher and enhanced my understanding of haiku. By reading his translations, I grew to understand that precise syllable count was perhaps the least important aspect of haiku. I now know haiku goes well beyond 5-7-5. And, strangely, I felt better after reading this book.

Like this:

The Book

Recently a workshop instructor recommended John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers. As fiction writing is still fairly new to me (though I would hardly call myself “young”), I eagerly ordered it. Whereas Stephen King’s On Writing took me a mere few hours over the course of two days to read, this book took me the entire month of February. It felt like a huge accomplishment just to finish it.

The book is structured into two parts: the first with four essay-like chapters on “theory” and the second with three practical chapters: Common Errors, Technique and Plotting.

The Good

First, let’s stipulate that Gardner knows what he’s talking about. He is able to describe particular fiction-writing approaches and clearly articulate why they work or don’t work, while acknowledging that rules don’t always hold: “Whatever works is good.” I learned what I need to consider in writing fiction—some new concepts, some things I might be doing poorly, some opportunities to enhance the impact of my writing. Good stuff.

Without rehashing the whole book, here are a few things that struck me:

Gardner laments that works of literature taught in many writing classes are “lesser” works of fiction, often chosen because they demonstrate a certain element of writing (“theme” for example), but frequently are missing good storytelling. This surprised me coming from an academic and, in all honesty, probably made me more open to listening to what he had to say.

Gardner emphasizes working on one aspect of writing at a time (e.g., in exercises). He tries to get “young” writers to surprise themselves how well they can do a particular thing, in order to build confidence. While this is certainly isn’t a new concept (practice improves performance—go figure), there was something comforting in the way Gardner allowed the chunking of Writing into manageable pieces.

The concept of “psychic distance” was new to me (actually it was mentioned in the class that led me to the book, but still new). Think of a movie camera panning a landscape vs. zooming in for a close-up on the main character. Same idea in writing. Stay further back on less important things, and get closer (inside the character’s head) on more important things. Notice how it changes the pace. I think I understood this intuitively, but Gardner’s description of it helped me realize what’s happening when I get stuck in the slog of “this happened, then this happened, then this happened.” Pull back and speed things up.

Gardner provides several technique exercises at the end of the book. While I have not done them (yet), I did do one exercise found in the middle of the book. In a nutshell, the idea was to describe a barn from the perspective of a father who had just lost a son in war, but not mention the son or the loss. I was surprised how vivid the description became for me and where my mind took the exercise. Aha!—a new technique to improve my writing (probably in poetry as well as fiction).

The Bad

The biggest complaint I read in reviews of this book is that Gardner is condescending and elitist. Now, I can understand that perception. He is erudite and pedantic. He makes many references that, to me, felt obscure. I like to consider myself fairly well read and well educated, but I would have to do a lot of catch-up reading to follow all his allusions. His prose is dense—a great example of academic writing, but not a style that itself demonstrates how to write fiction. (By contrast, King’s book helped me learn by example, even though he, too, was writing non-fiction.)

But I did not really interpret Gardner’s academic philosophizing as condescending or elitist (at least not in the negative use of the word). My two biggest issues were structure and sexism.

Structure

Structure might seem like an odd complaint. Here’s the thing: This book would be a useful reference book—but it is not designed to be easily referenced! The format of the writing, chapters, and pages does not allow for easy scanning and location of key points.

Perhaps my preference for easily scannable writing is due to my many years of writing in the business world. In that realm, headings, subheadings, and bulleted lists are your friends. I want my eyes to be able to quickly locate the section on “psychic distance.” One might think it is in the “Technique” chapter. Nope. It’s in “Common Errors.” Huh?

The book is also inconsistent in the bare formatting that does exist. The “Technique” chapter does have some subheadings (Vocabulary, The Sentence, etc.), but the “Common Errors” chapter does not.

Poor formatting plus long, academic writing equals a text that demands a lot of work on the reader’s part to find key information.

Sexism

Another common complaint about Gardner’s book, with which I agree, is his sexist language (some say misogynistic—I’m not sure I would go that far). Gardner bemoans the patriarchal nature of English,

Again and again this book speaks of the writer as “he,” though many of the best writers I have read or have taught in writing classes are female.

But then he goes ahead and reinforces the patriarchy by using the masculine pronoun entirely, and using female examples that are cliché bordering on sexist, e.g., strippers, unhappy housewives (really??).

The book was written in 1983, so perhaps a bit of allowance is made for academics who follow “proper” rules of English. But, good grief, even at that point in time language was evolving (using the plural instead of singular to avoid the pronoun gender problem altogether; alternating masculine and feminine pronouns; or, more controversially, using “they” as singular), and clichés were still clichés.

Gardner knows that the writer needs to control the language, learning but disregarding the “rules” when needed (“Whatever works is good.”), but somehow ignores his own advice on this terribly obvious point. Pronouns and clichés are within your control!!

The Recommendation: Read (in small doses, with your tolerance hat on)

I think the next time I read this book—and despite its flaws, I’m pretty sure I will—I will outline the key points, print them out, and tuck them inside the book as a reference tool. But what I would really like to see is a new edition, formatted for easy scanning and updated for contemporary usage.

I’ve never read Stephen King. I don’t like scary stories—books, movies, campfire tales. But I’d heard so many good things about King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft that, as a writer, I had to pick it up. And…

Wow. I liked his writing. I may have even learned a bit of craft simply by reading his prose. But more than craft, what hit me hard was his advice on process (which, let’s face it, you kind of have to have before craft really matters—I mean, if you don’t write, craft is kind of meaningless, yes?).

Here’s what resonated most for me, at this point in writing space and time:

Set a daily writing goal – King writes 2000 words per day and completes it regardless of the time it takes. Alternatively, you could set a time-based goal regardless of word count. Setting goals is nothing new, but it’s nice to get affirmation that the pros do it too. (Or, wait—maybe that’s what makes them pros??)

Write first – “Mornings belong to whatever is new—the current composition. Afternoons are for naps and letters. Evenings are for reading, family, Red Sox games on TV, and any revisions that just cannot wait.” Again, prioritizing is nothing new, but how many of us do it well?

Write every day – Another piece of well-worn advice, but the rationale was enlightening. “Once I start work on a project, I don’t stop and I don’t slow down unless I absolutely have to. If I don’t write every day, the characters begin to stale off in my mind—they begin to seem like characters instead of real people. The tale’s narrative cutting edge starts to rust and I begin to lose my hold on the story’s plot and pace. Worst of all, the excitement of spinning something new begins to fade. The work starts to feel like work, and for most writers that is the smooch of death.” Aha!

Get your novel done in three months – At 2000 words/day for 90 days, King’s right—three months yields quite a decent length novel. But again the rationale is key: If you take longer than three months, you get tired of it yourself. See “Write every day” above. Aha!

Eliminate distractions – Close the door, close the blinds, and (I’m sure he’d add) turn off email/social media. We’ve all heard this advice, but have you heard a rationale other than “in order to focus”? How about this one: Get rid of the mundane world so that you can create your own. Aha!

Rest between drafts – Let your first draft rest (King suggests a minimum of 6 weeks, at least in the context of novels—your boss probably won’t wait for that report past Friday) before looking at it fresh; it should appear alien to you upon rereading. Have you ever thought “Did I really write that? I don’t remember writing that.” No, the writing brownies did not sneak in overnight to write for you. The mind can play wonderful tricks to help you see things anew, allowing you to become a more effective editor.

Write the first draft with the door closed and the second (or maybe third) with the door open – Close the figurative door as well as the literal. Listen to yourself and your characters to get the story on the page. Don’t get distracted by others’ opinions or questions about what you’ve written. Responding to someone asking about the symbolism of the apple or to someone telling you how wonderful you are is likely to send you off on the wrong path (focusing on explaining symbols or being wonderful) rather than getting the story on the page. When you’ve revised enough to be comfortable that the story is “done” (i.e., not chock full of holes), go ahead and get the feedback—see what a few select audience members think. I used to have an affirmation “I listen to my own voice.” That’s why!

Thank you, Professor King, for the lessons on process. I will be back when I am ready to learn more about craft. And before then I may even pick up one of your novels.

Like this:

Imagine sitting in your Modern Poetry class at your Ivy League school. Your bearded professor in a tweed jacket leans forward, questioning each student in turn. What did Emily Dickinson mean by “this”? What did good ole Walt mean by the “blab of the pave”? Is William Carlos Williams’ note to his wife really poetry? What does it mean if the poet applies random chance to someone else’s words to “write” a new poem?

Your class has a spirited discussion, closely reading each poem, picking it apart, viewing it from many different angles. Agreeing and disagreeing, proposing new interpretations, discovering unintended significance.

The discussion goes 24 hours a day for 10 weeks. You pop in and out whenever you want. And it doesn’t cost a thing.

Welcome to MOOCs

Welcome to the world of MOOCs – Massive Online Open Courses. I recently finished a Modern Poetry course offered by the University of Pennsylvania through Coursera. I had 34,000 classmates, and yet I felt like I “knew” the professor, I connected with other students, and I learned a tremendous amount.

The course structure was straightforward:

The poetry itself – Read a poem, listen to an audio recording and/or discussion of poem when available, watch a video of the professor and a half dozen teaching assistants (TAs) discussing the poem, participate in the discussion forums as you desire (I did not do much). We covered 5-10 poems per week.

Quizzes – Take one multiple-choice quiz per week. Required only if you want a certificate of completion. (I skipped.)

Essays – Complete four essays to be peer reviewed by 3-4 other students. Again required only for a certificate of completion. (I skipped.)

Live webcasts – “Attend” (live or on YouTube after the fact) a weekly discussion with the professor and TAs. Participate via the discussion forums, Twitter, Facebook and live phone calls (yes, that retro technology)—or show up in Philly if you’re close enough. You wouldn’t believe the number of students from around the world who made the effort to be online live at all hours of the day and night.

Since ModPo was a free, non-credit class, people self-selected and already had an interest in the topic. Certainly we had the opportunity to pick and choose how much work to do, but this was not a lightweight class. It was estimated at 5-8 hours per week to complete all the work.

The Professor

The bearded, tweedy professor of Penn’s ModPo was Al Filreis. Al has a warm, engaging personality, and is a skilled facilitator. I liked Al from the beginning, but became a fan throughout the course.

I’ve been reading a bit about MOOCs as a result of this class. One of the criticisms is that the professor sometimes achieves “rock star” status rather than being a present, real teacher. I had to consider this criticism closely. Was I blinded by Al’s brilliance and his distant persona?

No, I don’t think so. I’m sure Al is brilliant when he lectures. But Al rarely lectured. (On the rare occasions he did “riff” on a topic, his deep expertise became apparent.) Al instead facilitated a group-learning process by carefully guiding the video conversations, asking probing questions, and disagreeing as appropriate. And this is quite honestly what I would expect of a professor at an Ivy League school.

But Al’s management of the webcasts took this course to another level. Al treated every course participant—whether TA, caller, discussion-forum participant—as a unique and special individual. He genuinely took pleasure in hearing from people, and he paid great attention to their ideas. He also did something remarkable in creating a connection with the entire group by calling out specific examples, messages and stories from individual participants. Nothing was about Al; everything was about the poetry and its impact on the class participants.

I had tears in my eyes at some point during nearly every webcast. And to me that’s what poetry is about—connecting with emotion and creating a stronger understanding of the human condition. Bravo, Al!

The Participants

The internet has already connected many previously marginalized populations by allowing them to find each other, connect and create communities. ModPo demonstrated that higher education can now achieve that as well.

Think of the people who might not otherwise have taken any poetry class, let alone one at Penn:

A woman with debilitating fibromyalgia.

A young man emerging from autism.

Elderly persons who could not physically travel to or sit in a classroom for any length of time.

These people can now work at their own pace around pain levels, energy levels, attention spans–and they can still interact with the professor and other students.

And of course there are the folks like me, who simply have an interest in the subject, don’t live anywhere near Philly, and need classes to fit around life’s other activities.

34,000 classmates and I didn’t feel like just one of the crowd. Amazing.

Their 90-minute documentary delivers compelling stories of ordinary people who decided not only to improve their public speaking skills, but to make a mark on the world with them. It will make you laugh, it will make you squirm, it will engender compassion. And take some Kleenex.

Every person I’ve talked to who has seen the film has raved about it. In the car on the way home, my husband and I couldn’t stop analyzing the characters and their portrayal. When I got home, I immediately sent an email to the president of my Toastmasters club to say we needed to host a screening—for as many people as possible.

If you need some motivation, inspiration, or affirmation, or if you just like a really well-done film, go see SPEAK. Then let me know what you think.

It’s for a new book club I’m visiting next week, so I wanted to like it. I really really wanted to like it so I could participate enthusiastically (!) in the discussion, but I knew I was in trouble by page 7.

I struggle to see how nearly 2000 ratings on Amazon come up with 4.5 stars. That’s either a comment on the sophistication of the reading public, the success of Garth Stein’s marketing machine, or a whole lot of hope given to those of us still honing our craft.